Give A Vow
by his-little-troll
Summary: Something has gone wrong at Molly's wedding, but Sherlock can hardly be to blame. Right?


**Give A Vow**

"And do you, Molly Hooper, take this man Timothy to be your lawfully wedded husband until death do you part?"

She was really quite lovely in her wedding gown. Everything was perfect and calm and all around _boring_. Sherlock had come along in case there was another murder or Tom ended up being an asshat or something else interesting. Since his arrival he'd picked at his nails, composed three songs mentally, counted backwards from one hundred and refused to look in the direction of the bride. Now, he was texting clients on his phone and ignoring every word the couple said. So when the crowd took a collective gasp, he was entirely out of the loop.

The next thing he knew, Tom stormed down the aisle with red cheeks and swinging arms. Molly followed closely behind him, crying and blubbering, and he was entirely confused as to why. The couple had been on the edge of marital bliss. They shouldn't be angrily storming away from each other for another four months at most. By his time line it was supposed to be another six months after their official wedding date that Molly left a placid and unfulfilling relationship. Not that he wasn't mildly pleased with the situation.

It's just, Tom had ruined the trajectory of Sherlock's overall plan. His cursed inattention had cost him the advantage of knowing why, although a large percentage of the guests were staring at him expectantly.

"What? You can't possibly expect me to fix their lovers tiff?"

John smacked his arm. "Lovers' tiff? Sherlock! You have to fix this."

"Me? Fix what? She's the one that wanted to get married!" The stares were stifling. What did they expect him to do? Chastise the couple until they decided to make up?

"You git, weren't you paying attention at all?" It was Mary's turn to hiss at him. He cocked an eyebrow, narrowed his eyes at her. "No then. She said your name. In her vows, she said your name. Not Tom's."

"What? Why would she say my name?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. Why do you think?" He really didn't like the way John and Mary gloated when he was clueless. He didn't gloat nearly as often as he could. One would think they'd be as considerate.

"What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Well, clearly, you've got to talk to Molly. Go on then." Mary shoved him towards the petal covered carpet, John motioning emphatically towards the door.

The staring didn't stop as he marched through the giant doors of Molly's marriage chapel. He could hear Tom scream across the parking lot, his vision bleeding red as he approached Molly's yellow buggy. Sherlock couldn't help but note that Tom didn't wear a suit well, all flapping sides and wrinkling sleeves waving around the air. Molly said something about taking a break to calm down. The loud bang as Tom's fist crashed against her hood was enough to light a fire under Sherlock's steps.

He hadn't gotten to know Tom in the months since Molly's engagement. While he hadn't considered that Tom could be violent, he'd never seen him angry. The increasing tint to the groom's cheeks and the aggressive way he loomed over Molly snapped in Sherlock's mind. Before he'd properly planned the move out his fist connected against Tom's jaw, a distinct pop signaling dislocation. He hadn't realized that the would-be husband had grabbed Molly's arm until she was half to the ground.

"Touch her in anger and I will find creative uses for your organs, Timothy." He did not bother to watch Tom scurry away. Instead, he kneeled to Molly's position on the ground. She was too busy wrestling her wedding dress to realize he'd offered her a helping hand.

"Stupid wedding with a… a stupid ballgown and a stupid train. I didn't even want a long train but he just thought it looked so magical. Stupid bloody man. Did he have to wear the _magical _train?" She sniffled and huffed, alternately wiping at the tears in her eyes and moving giant mounts of poofing fabric out of her way (again.)

Sherlock cleared his throat, offering his hand once more.

"Go away. You've already ruined enough with your stupid asshat face and big floofy hair."

"Floofy hair? I didn't do anything." She ignored his chivalry. Somewhat awkward now, he tucked his hands back into his pockets. They exchanged scowls.

"You know what you did. Avoiding me all day, refusing to look at me. You behaved like a cad."

"I behaved like I always do!"

"Which is like a cad." She finally managed to straighten herself out, glaring as Sherlock kept his eyes level with hers.

"How did I do anything? You're the one that said my name. I didn't make you say it."

"Of course not. You think I don't realize what you've been doing this last month?"

His face paled. He hadn't thought she'd noticed. She'd shown no signs.

She continued her berating, poking him in the chest to punctuate each point. "Bursting into my room stark naked! 'Oh, I didn't know you was in here, Molly!' You and you're lot of lame excuses." Poke. "Oh, I need you for a case, Molly, it's urgent!' The urgent case of the little girl's missing rat? Remember that one?" Poke. "You and your stupid purple shirt all unbuttoned, sans scarf, hair all wild and whatnot. Did you make sure you'd looked like you'd just got sexed or is that just how you always look?" Poke. "You cursed man, showing up today and hardly looking at me after you pestered me for weeks! Weeks!"

She was truly flustered. The curls in her hair fell free, her brown eyes burning with anger. His chest was sore where she'd jabbed her finger at him. He was close enough to see the shimmer from her makeup and smell the soft vanilla scent of her perfume. Her cheeks were red and her eyes scrunched and she looked absolutely like she was about to cry.

So of course he did the only thing he could do. He kissed her. She was close enough, it was only a tilting of his head, the quick movement of his hands to secure her angle. It really should have been chaste. Her ex-fiancé was still leaned against the building, making horrible choking noises as Molly's arm's wrapped around his shoulders.

So, it wasn't the long game he'd planned for, but the outcome was certainly better.


End file.
